Read Online Private Practices by Linda Wolfe - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Linda Wolfe
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unblemished. Annette dropped Benâs arm and pressed close to the glass. She had forgotten about Ben.
He couldnât forget about her. The incident haunted him. Although he had been taking barbiturates regularly for several years now, he had never before slept through a call to the hospital or endangered the health of a patient or a patientâs baby. He had thought himself immune to such possibilities because he had monitored his habit carefully. He had never, until the night he had learned of Claudiaâs pregnancy, taken more than the tolerance-producing dose of six hundred milligrams a day. Never allowed himself the street addictâs ignorant climb to ever higher and higher amounts. But despite the educated way he had handled his habit, it had put someone in peril. He made up his mind to stay off the drugs.
It was difficult, more difficult than the abrupt withdrawal itself. That was accomplished after three days of stomach cramps, nausea and weakness. He told Cora he had the flu, had her cancel all his appointments and stayed at home, shivering. In a corner of his bedroom was an overstuffed armchair from which one night, he didnât remember which or at what hour it had been, he had crazily ripped each cloth-covered button and held them in a sweating palm and at last put a few in his yearning mouth and swallowed, gagging before he vomited them onto the carpet.
But he hadnât fainted, hadnât had convulsions. Indeed, he hadnât experienced any of the more extreme effects that sudden withdrawal could produce in those who took higher doses of the drug. His real difficulties set in later, once the physical dependence was conquered. He was anxious, tremulous, and totally incapable of sleeping. His insomnia was a mutiny against his body, a nightly tossing and twisting of his limbs that left him feeling whipped and beaten toward morning and always, in those silent hours just before dawn, utterly abandoned and alone. He came to long for the very thing he had once most hated, the 4 or 5 A . M . call to hurry to the hospital for a delivery.
But no matter how acute his insomnia and loneliness became, he didnât let them drive him to writing himself a new barbiturate prescription. Every dawn, awake and brooding, he kept picturing Annette Kinneyâs tear-streaked face and hearing Diehlâs agitated voice. He remembered his own residency and didnât agree with Sidney that no harm would befall the young man if he were blamed for the delay in the babyâs birth. At the very least, his reputation would be stained, so that he would be starting his career with a serious mark against him.
Shouldering the blame himself would also stain a reputation, Ben thought. His own. But his career, such as it was, was already established. He had sufficient patients, and had colleagues who would continue to recommend others to him, no matter whether he won or lost a malpractice suit. As for his addiction, he doubted he could be suspended for it, once it was in the past. And so he lay awake at night, waiting for his insomnia to fade, as he imagined it would in time.
The loneliness was another matter. It was loneliness that had first caused his love affair with sleep. And unless he conquered it now, he would once again be seduced. But he couldnât look to Sidney for help in this. If anything, Sidney would want to see less of him, not more, once the baby was born. He would have to manage on his own. Would have to develop other distractions. One morning, lying in a tangle of sheets and watching a rainswept dawn that was nearly as dismal and dark as the night that had preceded it, he decided that he was going to marry Naomi.
CHAPTER THREE
MARCH
Emily Harper set down her grocery bags, turned the key in the lock and undid her bra even before picking up the bags again and entering her apartment. Her breasts hurt. Alternately plaguing and awe-provoking, they no longer seemed a part of herself but something
He couldnât forget about her. The incident haunted him. Although he had been taking barbiturates regularly for several years now, he had never before slept through a call to the hospital or endangered the health of a patient or a patientâs baby. He had thought himself immune to such possibilities because he had monitored his habit carefully. He had never, until the night he had learned of Claudiaâs pregnancy, taken more than the tolerance-producing dose of six hundred milligrams a day. Never allowed himself the street addictâs ignorant climb to ever higher and higher amounts. But despite the educated way he had handled his habit, it had put someone in peril. He made up his mind to stay off the drugs.
It was difficult, more difficult than the abrupt withdrawal itself. That was accomplished after three days of stomach cramps, nausea and weakness. He told Cora he had the flu, had her cancel all his appointments and stayed at home, shivering. In a corner of his bedroom was an overstuffed armchair from which one night, he didnât remember which or at what hour it had been, he had crazily ripped each cloth-covered button and held them in a sweating palm and at last put a few in his yearning mouth and swallowed, gagging before he vomited them onto the carpet.
But he hadnât fainted, hadnât had convulsions. Indeed, he hadnât experienced any of the more extreme effects that sudden withdrawal could produce in those who took higher doses of the drug. His real difficulties set in later, once the physical dependence was conquered. He was anxious, tremulous, and totally incapable of sleeping. His insomnia was a mutiny against his body, a nightly tossing and twisting of his limbs that left him feeling whipped and beaten toward morning and always, in those silent hours just before dawn, utterly abandoned and alone. He came to long for the very thing he had once most hated, the 4 or 5 A . M . call to hurry to the hospital for a delivery.
But no matter how acute his insomnia and loneliness became, he didnât let them drive him to writing himself a new barbiturate prescription. Every dawn, awake and brooding, he kept picturing Annette Kinneyâs tear-streaked face and hearing Diehlâs agitated voice. He remembered his own residency and didnât agree with Sidney that no harm would befall the young man if he were blamed for the delay in the babyâs birth. At the very least, his reputation would be stained, so that he would be starting his career with a serious mark against him.
Shouldering the blame himself would also stain a reputation, Ben thought. His own. But his career, such as it was, was already established. He had sufficient patients, and had colleagues who would continue to recommend others to him, no matter whether he won or lost a malpractice suit. As for his addiction, he doubted he could be suspended for it, once it was in the past. And so he lay awake at night, waiting for his insomnia to fade, as he imagined it would in time.
The loneliness was another matter. It was loneliness that had first caused his love affair with sleep. And unless he conquered it now, he would once again be seduced. But he couldnât look to Sidney for help in this. If anything, Sidney would want to see less of him, not more, once the baby was born. He would have to manage on his own. Would have to develop other distractions. One morning, lying in a tangle of sheets and watching a rainswept dawn that was nearly as dismal and dark as the night that had preceded it, he decided that he was going to marry Naomi.
CHAPTER THREE
MARCH
Emily Harper set down her grocery bags, turned the key in the lock and undid her bra even before picking up the bags again and entering her apartment. Her breasts hurt. Alternately plaguing and awe-provoking, they no longer seemed a part of herself but something
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